


The Queen, the Serf, & the Soldier

by Saathi1013



Series: The Iron Castle [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Femdom, Mild Painplay, Other, Other: See Story Notes, POV Male Character, POV Third Person Limited, Podfic Available, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Undercover, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt at <a href="http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=27520">the Man From UNCLE kinkmeme</a>:</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Undercover, Femdom: When the trio infiltrate THRUSH at last, Gaby gets to go undercover as a ruthless heiress willing to lend the organization her vast resources. Napoleon gets to play her adoring man slave, while Illya gets to play her infinitely loyal muscle.</i></p><p> </p><p>Second chapter contains a situation that some may read as containing dubious consent (discussed in story notes <i>at the beginning of that chapter</i>).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kleenexwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/gifts).



> Many thanks to Orockthro for her patience in putting up with my yammering about this fic, from initial inception ("huh, this prompt looks, interesting, I could totally see...") to my semi-manic writing spree ("I WROTE 10k IN TWO DAYS SEND HELP") to my later writers' block ("oh god everything I'm writing is terrible and it's only been a couple hundred words send help"). I think I owe her booze or something.
> 
> There are, occasionally, words from other languages used in the text; translations are provided in rollover. If I have used them incorrectly, native speakers, please do let me know and I will correct ASAP.

They’re in Italy again; THRUSH is _very_ good at playing on the inclinations of aristocratic fascists who long for a return of their former influence. For instance, the woman Illya guards is Contessa Regina Acerbi, as imperious and callous as her name implies. She’s frivolous, vain, and avaricious, too, with few moral virtues and even fewer loyalties.

Not to mention the _many_ objections Illya has to her wardrobe. Not that it isn’t of a quality appropriate to her station, oh no. It’s simply… too _purple_. And much too old for her, long diaphanous gowns with layers of crepe that she’ll have trouble running in (it may be his job to ensure that the situation won’t come to that, but the other part of his job is to make sure that all possible eventualities are covered) and not nearly as flattering to her figure as he’d prefer.

Still, it suits her current needs and makes her slight figure look taller, as if her bearing and manner didn’t already command enough attention.

The company she keeps doesn’t hurt, either. Because not only does she have Illya at her back, sharp-eyed and frowning, but she also has her… adoring _pet_.

Antonino Schiavo makes Illya’s lip curl. His clothes are too flashy, his pants too tight, his manner too breezy, and his entire _existence_ is so insubstantial beyond his well-built frame that he might as well be a sunbeam, bright and fleeting and unreliable. But Regina adores him, inasmuch as she _can_ value another person’s existence. She dotes upon Antonino, and he her, and they’re nauseating to watch together, but that’s Illya’s job, so he does, suffering their endearments and affections until he’s dismissed.

Antonino has the top button of his shirt undone today, no tie or jacket but pale blue linen stretched across his broad shoulders and the glint of Regina’s collar at the base of his throat. There’s a matching leash somewhere, too, flat gold links and soft leather handle, probably coiled absent-mindedly on one of the occasional tables in their suite as if they don’t care that anyone could see it.

As if they _want_ visitors to see it.

Illya is not sure he likes this mission. But it’s essential, or so he’s been told: the only way they currently have to infiltrate THRUSH at the highest level, and they can’t wait for another opportunity because they’ve heard rumor of a major operation in the works. Some new nerve agent, easy to transport as separate innocuous components that then combine when dissolved in water - like, say, a public reservoir.

All THRUSH needs is the funding to develop a suitable quantity of it. That’s where Regina comes in with her impressive fortune, very little of it inherited through respectable means.

( _Such a shame what happened to her elder brother,_ they say. _And to her first husband. So tragic that the two were lost in a skiing accident not even a year before her already-ailing father passed away, too. And then her second husband ran off with all that money_ and _the maid. She’s suffered so much loss, it’s no wonder she’s become guarded and…_ eccentric _over the years.)_

When Gaby had read the Contessa’s biography, she’d laughed. “Unbelievable,” she’d said.

“Oh, she’s very real,” Waverly had assured them in the briefing. “And _very_ dangerous. You’ll need to be at the top of your game for this one, all of you.”

“I think we can handle it,” Napoleon said, looking far too delighted at the prospect.

Illya had had no objections at the time; he hadn’t realized yet the true extent of his role. ‘Bodyguard’ he could do in his sleep. ‘Unwitting and stoic voyeur,’ however, is testing his patience.

Now, for instance, they are playing croquet, Antonino’s arms around Regina as he helps her practice her swing. He murmurs something in her ear that makes her laugh, and she reaches up to pat his cheek indulgently before tangling her fingers with his around the handle of her mallet.

Illya’s gaze falters, glances away, and he catches the eye of Signora Catarina Fierro, their hostess. She’s watching Illya, not the pair on the lawn, a small, sharp smile on her face.

“They make a lovely couple,” Catarina - or rather _Kitty_ , a foolish name she insists upon - comments airily.

Illya inclines his head in something like a nod, but doesn’t answer aloud. He couldn’t trust his voice, and besides, it’s the nature of his role to speak to her (and her other guests) as little as possible.

Still, Kitty keeps on, coiled in her lounge chair like a serpent. “How long have you worked for them?”

“I work for the Contessa, since before she met Antonino,” he says, and sees a spark kindle in her eyes. _There_. Napoleon is not the only one who can play on people’s assumptions. Illya does not smile, but there is a glow of satisfaction in his chest, now, to counter the slow roil in his stomach.

“Gregorio!” Regina calls, and he snaps to attention. “Be a dear and roll that back, will you?” He blinks, and Antonino gives an impatient gesture towards the ground. Illya looks down and, sure enough, there’s a striped yellow ball at his feet.

“Come on now, we haven’t got all day,” Antonino adds, and Illya suppresses the sudden desire to dislocate the man’s jaw and feed the wayward ball to him. Instead, he kicks it back, with precision and just enough speed that it knocks into Antonino’s ankle with stinging force.

Beside him, Kitty’s smile widens.

***

After lunch, they retire to their rooms for a _riposo_ , scanning the room for bugs and turning on the miniature signal jammer in Regina’s compact for good measure. “I’m going to have a bruise,” Napoleon says, lifting up the cuff of his trouser leg to look at his ankle. “What was that even for?”

Gaby rolls her eyes. “He was feeling left out, of course. It must be awfully dull, standing there all the time.” She strips off the heavy gold jewelry she’s worn all morning, bangles and rings and necklace and earrings. It’s probably doubled her weight, but you wouldn’t have known it to watch her in character. “Poor Illya.” She shoots him a sympathetic look.

“No,” Illya counters, “I was having a nice talk with our hostess. She now believes that Gregorio is secretly in love with Regina. It gives her weakness she can exploit.”

“...or try to,” Napoleon says, looking impressed. If only he didn’t look _surprised_ , too. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Peril.”

“I could have _broken_ your ankle,” Illya responds in the tone of an offer, not a statement of fact.

“But you didn’t,” Gaby says with finality. “Now we can compare notes on the rest of the guests. And the castle.”

It _is_ a castle, too. A modest one, to be sure, but it rises above the trees on its hillside like the white prow of a ship, overlooking the vineyards of Val d’Orcia and the sloping bulk of Monte Amiata, all that remains of a dormant volcano.

Among its other amenities, it boasts two tennis courts, a croquet court, and a swimming pool. Also, UNCLE suspects, a chemical weapons laboratory built into the wine caves within the hill beneath the castle. So far, they have been unable to find the entrance to the caves, but then, it’s only been a few days.

It feels like it’s been _weeks_.

Unlike Solo (and to a lesser extent, Gaby), Illya has never been able to be completely at ease anywhere; perhaps it’s his upbringing, perhaps it’s his training. And yet, being undercover here, in the heart of the viper’s den, has rubbed his nerves raw in an entirely new way.

He will be glad when this is all over. They might even be given some time away from one another.

Right now, that sounds like bliss.

***

Dinner at Castello di Fierro is a more formal affair, though still lively and social. It is only after dinner that business is discussed, sometimes well into the evening. So far, they haven’t learned too much beyond the innocuous hobbies, legitimate business interests, and superficial political alignments of the various guests, and the UNCLE team all agree that the key THRUSH leaders present are being justifiably cautious about courting Regina and feeling out her possible inclinations.

Besides the UNCLE team and Kitty, there are six others at the castle, not counting the servants: Severino, Kitty’s husband; Fellippo, their son; Marco Aita, an old friend of Severino’s and likely a top THRUSH strategist; Otto and Joli Fleischer, the latter of whom attended boarding school with Kitty; and Cajsa Hässli, a young heiress from Switzerland who may also be here for unwitting recruitment. And it _does_ appear to be unwitting; she’s pleasant and charming and pretty and very attached to Fellippo, but she’s retired early from prior after-dinner discussions, excusing herself with a light self-deprecating joke about not really being able to follow along.

Fellippo usually exits next after a calculated duration, disinterested in either rebelling against or actively participating in his parents’ despicable affiliations so long as his life remains comfortable, and he’s obviously got his eye on keeping Cajsa around. His parents don’t seem to object to the union so long as their future daughter-in-law brings her fortune.

And then there is the castle staff: a few timid and largely interchangeable maids that stay out of sight as much as possible, a taciturn and intimidatingly efficient butler, and two cooks, one for mornings and lunch and one for the evenings. According to what Illya and Napoleon have been able to ascertain, these servants all seem to be local villagers ignorant of any suspicious goings on at the castle beyond the usual social scandals common to Italian aristocracy.

The guards are a different story. There are - at _minimum_ \- a dozen on the grounds, within the castle and without, and they are all wary and taciturn. Illya has only gotten a few words from any one of them at a time, and very few are willing to share their names, so he can’t even get a thorough count that way. He knows their type, though, former soldiers turned mercenaries, thugs with no loyalty and more than a little fascination with brutal means towards whatever ends they’re paid to pursue. They are the ones that give him the most difficulty, watching him closely, accurately recognizing his presence as the greatest current threat on the premises.

To be honest, Illya’s looking forward to breaking all of their noses systematically on his way out. Possibly a few necks, depending on how many let their eyes linger too long on Regina.

But _bozhe moi_ , he’s tired of dodging their erratic patrols merely to do a preliminary search of the castle.

***

“It might be a two-person job,” Napoleon comments when Illya brings up the guard issue before dinner. Napoleon frowns into the mirror at his uncooperative tie, undoing it and starting over.

Illya glowers. “You think I can’t do it?”

“We both know you can,” Gaby says from the loveseat by the window, already dressed and ready to go, “but just to speed things up.”

“Exactly,” Napoleon says, shooting a triumphant grin through the mirror at Illya and losing track of the knot in the process.

“Fine.” Illya nudges Napoleon and swats his hands away from the tie. “You’re crushing the silk,” he explains, pre-empting any protest, and faintly surprised when he gets none. Napoleon simply stands there, taking the opportunity to put on his cufflinks while he bares his neck.

“See?” Gaby says, strolling over as they’re finishing up, swinging her pearl-encrusted purse by its wrist strap, “ _Much_ easier when you have help.”

***

When asked later, Illya won't be able to give a good account of the conversation at dinner. Most of it is pointless frivolities anyhow, and there are the other two agents present for the discussion to recall it if needed.

Meanwhile, Illya is being driven slowly mad.

From his vantage point behind Regina’s chair, he can see all the guests seated at the table, the two guards in the room dressed as serving-men, the door to the kitchen, one guard through the window in the door to the main hallway, and a good portion of the driveway through the window at his elbow.

He can also see straight down Gaby’s bodice; at a level, it’s a stiffly-embroidered v-neck affair with a glittering geometric accent pattern of pale violet sequins, a high waist, and a long sweep of multi-layered lavender chiffon draped to her feet. From above, the rigidity of the fabric keeps it from molding to her figure, meaning that he can see both the small gun she has hidden away in there _and_ the fact that she’s not wearing a brassiere.

He does his best to not look, but she’s wearing a necklace of passable paste diamonds that drapes down into her décolletage and catches the light every time she moves.

Regina moves _constantly_. Reaching for food, for wine, for water, toying with her silverware, laughing at jokes, leaning in to exchange asides with Cajsa… As the two women closest in age, Regina and Cajsa have been getting along famously; Illya gathers that Gaby’s keeping the other girl close as a protective measure, in case things get messy. Even closer, on Regina’s other side, sits Antonino.

Or rather, he kneels. No one had said a word to the contrary that first night, when Antonino had pulled up a low stool, the better to lounge against his mistress’ knee; Cajsa might have muffled a slight giggle, and Marco might have raised an eyebrow for a fleeting moment, but Kitty and Joli had merely spared an admiring glance while continuing their conversation as if nothing had occurred.

If it had been Napoleon’s intention to provoke responses meant to get an initial read on the character of their company, he had succeeded. But then he had continued the practice, switching from stool to a graceful kneel to a cushion on the grass beside Regina’s lawn chair as needed, always in a distinct position of submission and always within arm’s reach of her.

Tonight, he kneels, resting against the arm of her chair, his dusky-blue silk trousers pulled tight over his broad thighs. Regina absently strokes his hair, pats his shoulder, passes him food from her plate. He leans into every touch, and as is customary for him at dinner, does not engage with the conversation, his presence purely ornamental. Illya suspects that they have worked out a system, delineating Antonino’s behavior in formal situations from more casual ones, when he is freer to act.

Illya would really prefer not to imagine that conversation.

The meal continues.

***

When the assembled party retires to the drawing room for drinks and discussion, Regina dismisses both Antonino and Gregorio. “I’m tired of you hovering,” she says disdainfully. “I’ll be _fine_.”

That explains the gun in her bodice.

Not coincidentally, this frees up Napoleon and Illya to search the east wing, as most of the servants are gone for the evening or busy washing up in the kitchen, and the guards are concentrated around the drawing room and outside, with only a handful doing rounds in the areas of the building presently unused.

It helps that Illya found a narrow, cobwebby servants’ hall that connects all the private rooms through a stairwell to the laundry. Many of the doors are blocked, hinges rusted with disuse, but he’s been able to shoulder his way into one or two places without too much fuss or leaving any trace.

They stop by Regina’s rooms first, so that Napoleon can change from his peacock costume and into something more sensible, and Illya can get an extra roll of microfilm for the camera disguised as a lighter in his jacket pocket.

“All right, Peril,” Napoleon says, clapping his hands and rubbing them together in undisguised anticipation. “Where to first?” It occurs to Illya that Napoleon might have been chafing at the limitations of his role, too.

Well, if he wants to stretch back into some _real_ spycraft for a change, who is Illya to deny him?

“Library,” he decides. “I haven’t been able to get the library and the study near the master suite. A lookout will help.” Napoleon seems nearly mutinous at the word _lookout_. “Don’t worry, Cowboy,” Illya promises. “If I find a safe or a lockbox, it’s all yours.”

“Now you’re talking,” Napoleon says, gesturing expansively. “Lead on, Macduff!”

“It’s _‘lay_ on,’ you uneducated swine,” Illya retorts, but he’s having a hard time suppressing his own smile, already moving towards the door to the servants’ passageway.

***

The library is warm, unexpectedly so, but the stone floor must soak up sunshine all day via the bank of south-facing windows, heat radiating back and trapped by the heavy curtains when they’re closed for the evening. Immediately upon arrival, Napoleon drops down into an overstuffed chair by the door, swinging his legs up over the arm and lazing indolently.

Illya rolls his eyes. “What?” Napoleon says. “I can watch the door just fine from here. Besides, it’s been days since I got to sit in a proper chair. It’s been hell on the line of my slacks.”

“You’re a soft man,” Illya mutters, refraining from any comment about _the line of Napoleon’s slacks_.

“Ah, you’re finally acknowledging my manhood, that’s progress.”

“Shut up and let me look, Solo,” Illya retorts. Napoleon mimes locking his mouth shut and relaxes back into the plush cushions of his seat.

Illya doesn’t trust Napoleon to not pick any lock within arm’s reach, let alone an imaginary one of his own making, but the next half-hour is spent in relative silence while Illya methodically hunts through the room. The KGB had taught him four ways to search a room: fast or slow, messy or neat. Fast and messy was a step above petty burglary; slow and messy was usually used to intimidate the target as much as to find useful items; fast and neat was best for planting things like surveillance devices. Here, he doesn’t dare leave a trace and can’t afford to miss anything, so slow and neat it is.

“Ah,” he says, lifting a paperweight and noticing that the swatch of felt on its base is worn on one corner, its backing losing some of its stick. He picks at it with a fingernail and finds an ornate brass key taped to the inside. He holds it up to Napoleon’s questioning glance, and when Napoleon makes a wordless gesture, tosses it over.

Napoleon inspects it. “Interesting,” he says.

“Will you need to duplicate it?”

Napoleon tosses it back and Illya pulls it from the air one-handed. “No,” Napoleon says. “I can pick a lock like that with my eyes closed and nothing but a toothpick. What’s interesting is that I haven’t seen a lock that matches it anywhere in the castle. It’s for an old, old padlock, like what you put on gate chains.”

Illya wipes down the key, memorizing its size and the luster of its metal so that he can watch for its match, and puts it back, replacing both tape and felt carefully, aligning it just so on the desk. “Locked drawer,” he tells Napoleon, whose eyes light up.

They move to trade places, and Napoleon claps Illya on the shoulder as they pass each other, something like gratitude in his smile. It’s a simple desk lock, nothing beyond Illya’s abilities, but it’s a job better suited to a thief and he will (privately) admit that Napoleon’s larcenous skillset has more subtlety than his own.

There are footsteps in the hallway.

“Quick,” Napoleon says, and pushes Illya against the window, half-hidden by the curtain. “Now hold still,” he instructs, and steps in close, head tilting.

Illya pushes him back, reflexively. “What are you _doing?_ ” he hisses.

“Kissing you, of course,” Napoleon says in an entirely too-reasonable tone, drawing near again, voice dropping to a low murmur. “Now hold still or I’ll have to get on my knees.” The mental image of that - half memory, half something else - makes Illya freeze long enough for Napoleon to suit actions to words.

The kiss is- the kiss is- The kiss is beyond Illya’s powers of comprehension. The windowpanes behind him burn cool against his palms but Napoleon’s mouth is like a flame, hot and flickering and threatening to consume Illya whole if he’s not careful.

After the initial shock passes, Illya decides that he’ll be _damned_ if Solo will upstage him. With hands fisted in Napoleon’s lapels, Illya pivots them both, slamming Napoleon’s back against the sash, jolting them apart.

Napoleon looks a little dazed, mouth flushed and slick. Illya can’t stop staring at it, even when Napoleon starts speaking, in a tone pitched slightly louder than is ideal. “I know,” he says, in Antonino’s inflections, “and you know I feel the same way, but we _can’t_. Not yet. We have to wait until I find her vault, and then we will have enough to begin a new life, one where she’ll _never_ find us.”

It takes a moment for Illya to catch up, as close as they are together, Napoleon’s arms around him and their bodies flush from chest to thigh.

Ah. Yes. “Nino,” Gregory says, voice rough. “I am tired of waiting. I am tired of watching you with her.” It doesn’t even feel like a lie. “ _Please_.”

There’s an approving smile in Napoleon’s gaze, alongside the pleading, enamored expression he’s affected for their audience. “Not much longer,” he says, then kisses Illya again, lingering and almost sweet. “I promise.”

There’s the scrape of a shoe and the click of a latch, as if someone has ducked back out the door. Napoleon glances over Illya’s shoulder, and the tension in his forehead eases.

“Are we clear?” Illya breathes.

“...yes,” Napoleon replies.

“Then I should probably-” Illya shifts back, incrementally.

“If you like,” Napoleon says. He makes it sound like a _joke_ , which is all Illya needs to wrench himself from Napoleon’s embrace, turning his back, face stinging as badly as when Gaby had slapped him with his own hands.

 _Vot derʹmó,_ he thinks, _Gaby_.

As if Napoleon is a mind-reader, he says, “We should probably go back to our dear Contessa, hey?” Illya looks at him, alarmed, and Napoleon shrugs easily, still leaning against the window frame, looking unperturbed and only slightly mussed. “After all, we’ve just changed the underlying narrative for our little soap opera; she’ll need to be updated. Each of our covers now have weaknesses to exploit, so the other two will need to be on their toes to take advantage of any ensuing distractions.”

“ _Da_ ,” Illya says, looking away again, dread forming a cold pit in his stomach. “Let us go, talk to Gaby.”

***

Gaby laughs when she hears it, chokes on a giggle halfway through and it deteriorates from there. Napoleon gives the report in a matter-of-fact tone, glancing to Illya for confirmation every now and then. Illya gives him curt nods from across the room, occasionally a word or two, his arms crossed over his chest, back to the wall furthest from them both.

“ _Mein Gott_ ,” she says, breathless and flushed, eyes dancing, “I wish I’d been there to see that!”

“We could arrange for an encore,” Napoleon offers, smirking at Illya.

“I am not your circus bear,” Illya says. “I will not dance for your amusement.” He spies Gaby’s arched eyebrow and indrawn breath, as if she’s about to reply, and interrupts whatever she was going to say by repeating firmly, “I will _not_.”

He goes back outside to stand guard in the hall.

***

Gossip moves more quickly than expected; Illya catches a couple of knowing glances from the other guests at the breakfast table. Gaby and Napol- _The Contessa_ and _Nino_ seem to be blissfully unaware, the latter feeding the former fresh fruit from her plate without a care in the world.

“I think I’ll go riding this morning,” Fellippo announces. “Would you care to join me, Cajsa?”

Regina straightens in her seat; Gaby’s been meaning to get Fellippo away from his parents for some subtly-directed conversational fishing. “Oh, that sounds marvellous! Do say yes?”

Cajsa looks relieved to have a chaperone whose company she enjoys. “Why not? It’s a beautiful day for it.”

“Excellent!” Regina replies. “Antonino, dearest, ready a horse for me?” She twirls the end of a lock of hair around her forefinger, looking coquettish. “You know how I love seeing you play stable boy.”

It’s as good an excuse for Napoleon to search the stables as any, though Illya would bet that ‘playing stable boy’ is not high on his own list of favorite activities. He’s _very_ good at maintaining his cover, though: even knowing him as he does, Illya can’t detect a shred of falsehood when Napo- _Antonino_ takes Regina’s hand with a brilliant smile and says, “Anything for you, my darling,” before brushing his lips across her knuckles.

There is the faintest tinge of color, high on Gab- _Regina’s_ cheeks as she sends Antonino away, and Illya feels the same echo of that heat in his own face as he watches the scene.

When he looks away, he sees Frau Fleischer eyeing him sidelong with interest, as if he’s broken his cover. _Ah_ , he thinks, remembering the farce from last night, and schools his expression into vigilant neutrality - just as Gregorio would if he’d been caught.

***

“You seemed upset at breakfast,” Gaby says through the door to her bedroom, which stands partially ajar as she changes.

“I have a hard time believing that any man would so happily yield to a woman the way Antonino does for Regina, that’s all,” Illya says, knowing that it’s a lie.

Gaby knows it, too, from the way her laugh sings out from the other room. “Oh, Illya, plenty of men do. Not always so… ostentatiously, but they do.” She comes out to give him a fond look, her head tipped to one side as she smiles. “But I think you knew that.”

She is dressed perfectly appropriately for riding, so there’s no reason why he should find himself speechless, and yet here he is, mind totally blank of any coherent response. It can’t be the jacket; it’s a deep plum velvet so dark it’s almost black - more of that blasted purple, like the large gold filigree and amethyst brooch pinning her cravat. She wears a crisp white shirt with a high-collar that sets off the angle of her jaw but looks missish compared to the neckline of the dress she wore last night.

What might be throwing him are the trousers, slim-fitting jodhpurs in pale lemon yellow that highlight the sleek lines of her legs. It could also be the calf-high black leather boots, or, quite possibly-- “...who let you have riding crop?” he asks warily, his accent thick in his throat.

“Oh this?” she asks, toying with it absently. “Napoleon got me a kit, you know, of things to strategically leave about the suite, shock the maids, enhance my reputation without actually having to _do_ anything.” She flashes a mischievous smile. “Where _he_ got them, I have no idea, but they’re all in the box at the bottom of my trunk, if you want to see what else he found.”

Even with permission, the idea of pawing through her personal effects is… _alarming_. “No,” Illya says stiffly. “I don’t want to know.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, going into a closet and lifting down her riding hat from a hook. “I’ll just have to keep surprising you, then.” She tucks helmet and crop under her arm and tips Illya a wink before heading out the door, leaving him speechless before he scrambles to follow as he ought.

***

Later, Illya will curse himself soundly for not seeing it sooner. While Regina and the pair of young lovers are out riding, the others decide to bathe in the pool and in the sun. It seems like the perfect time to continue the search of the castle.

“Will you join us?” Joli asks, giving Antonino an unsubtle once-over, looking forward to the opportunity to see him in even more revealing attire than his usual.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” Antonino says, Solo’s thoughts clearly running parallel to Illya’s. To be sure, having Napoleon on watch did help Illya’s focus while he was searching, but his presence is unlikely to do the same again after last night. “Between dealing with the horse this morning and a…” Antonino pauses delicately before continuing, “rather _late_ evening last night, I think I’ll steal a bit of shut-eye before the Contessa comes back. You’ll wake me, won’t you, Gregorio?” He casts Illya a heated glance like the poorly-shielded glare of the sun.

Illya - _Gregorio_ \- nods faux-grudgingly. Antonino gives them all an elaborate courtly bow and exits, passing the chief guard on his way.

The chief - whose name is Waller, Illya has gathered from judicious eavesdropping - makes his way over to Kitty and whispers in her ear. She waves him off, looking unperturbed.

“What about you, Gregario?” Joli asks. “You don’t seem to have enjoyed yourself for a _moment_.”

“It is not my place,” Gregorio answers, calculating elapsed time in his head. “But I thank you for the offer. I think I will get out of this sun myself; it’s too hot for my taste today. Please, excuse me.”

Kitty, Joli, and Marco don’t even wait for him to get out of earshot before he hears their incredulous laughter ring out behind him. The sham continues, and Illya dreads being alone with Napoleon now for entirely different reasons.

***

“We should talk,” Napoleon says as he’s cracking the safe in Severino’s private study.

“No we shouldn’t,” Illya says from his position at the door. “You should listen to _that_.” He points to the safe.

Napoleon lifts his palm from the faceplate, waggling his fingers. “I have sensitive hands,” he informs Illya archly. “I can feel the vibrations through the metal, with an old clunker like this one.” He strokes the dial affectionately, and Illya looks away. “Seriously, Illya, I’m trying to apologize here. It’s hard enough without you being all… _frosty_ about it.” His face lights up with delight and he swings the safe door open with a flourish. “Camera?” Illya tosses it to him. “Now, as I was saying, I’d like to apologize if I… made things uncomfortable. I know your affections are fixed on Gaby, and I have no wish to ruin your prospects there.”

“Please,” Illya says, closing his eyes and barely, _barely_ keeping himself from throwing something or banging his head against the nearest hard surface. _“Please_ , do not speak.”

As if he hadn’t heard him, Napoleon keeps talking. “And don’t worry,” he says. “My reports on this mission will be circumspect. I’ll take your secret to my grave.”

 _That won’t be very long_ , Illya thinks darkly, but says, “Wait, _what_ secret?”

“That you’re… well, I personally prefer the term ‘slightly crooked’ as a modifier of ‘bent,’ but that’s just me. I don’t know what they call it in Russian; I rarely stuck around long enough to get the finer points of that particular lingo…” The infuriating American is rambling, sounding almost nostalgic as he efficiently photographs the stack of documents from the safe, now neatly laid out on the carpet.

“What _are_ you talking about?” Illya says, his whisper more like an angry hiss.

Napoleon pauses, blinking up at him with furrowed brow. “Illya,” he says slowly. “Are you honestly trying to pretend that you didn’t… _react_ to what happened last night?”

The world gets hazy around the edges. “It is your _specialty_ to get reactions, _da?_ ” he spits, heedless of volume. “Perhaps you can afford to be cavalier about these things, but some of us cannot. And as you pointed out, I have options much more appealing than an unreliable _blyad_.”

The look Napoleon gives at this is almost as satisfying as a physical impact. “That was uncalled-for,” he says, looking back down at the pages arrayed around his knees. “And here I thought we’d gotten past judging each other based on such trivialities.”

“That’s the difference between us,” Illya says, the rage curdling in his gut. “You think these things are trivial.”

Napoleon swallows once and starts gathering up the documents, filing them back into the safe. “...we’re all done here,” he says.

“Good,” Illya says, and doesn’t wait for Napoleon as he makes his way towards the servants’ hall. Illya hears him following, though, some part of him still attuned to working with the American, maintaining a situational awareness of his partner in a way that’s distinct from - but, he is beginning to understand, no less acute than - his constant awareness of Gaby.

It’s certainly a hell of a time to realize it.

 

 

 

\-- TBC --


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tagged this with dubious consent in regards to a scene in the second chapter involving a riding crop - depending on how you read it, it can be considered a 'coerced scene,' though I'm not sure the participants would describe it as such and the context is unusual enough that I was unsure about making a definite call one way or the other. 
> 
> There are also some elements that may seem anachronistic; some are done deliberately (as in: conscientiously with regards to authorial responsibility, such as it is), and some may be outright errors. Feel free to pm me (email is this username at gmail) if you see anything that is glaring enough to break suspension of disbelief.

No sooner have they returned to Regina’s quarters than they hear a banging on the door. Without a second thought, Napoleon slips the camera into a flower arrangement and they both start brushing cobwebs from their clothes.

“ _Signori_ ,” comes a voice through the door, “open the door, we know you are both in there.” There is some muttering, and the rattling of keys. “If you do not, we _will_ come in anyway.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Napoleon says, giving Illya a guarded look.

“Don’t even think about it,” Illya warns.

“You’re right,” Napoleon concedes, his shoulders dropping. “Besides, we should look as if we’re trying too hard in the other direction.” Quickly, he pulls the tail of his shirt from his trousers, rumpling the collar with a hard clench of his fist on the fine fabric. Then he scrubs the back of his hand across his mouth, bringing out the blush response. “Give me your belt,” he says. Illya stays on the other side of the room but complies, tossing it over. Napoleon catches it, only to drop it on the carpet and kick it behind his heels, partially hidden under the tablecloth there. “One more thing,” Napoleon says, “open the zip on your fly.”

Illya closes his eyes, pained, but does so, seeing clearly - _too_ clearly - the picture Napoleon is painting of Gregorio and Antonino, scrambling to put themselves to rights when caught _in flagrante_.

The door opens, and Nap- _Antonino_ pushes himself back against the table, as if he’s trying to put as much distance between himself and Gregorio as possible. Illya feels his face warm, but keeps his expression stony, arms crossed, chin lifted.

There is a low kind of animal cunning in Waller’s eyes as he takes in the scene, the two guards at his back exchanging glances. “My apologies, Signori,” sounding totally unrepentant. “I was instructed to bring you both at once.”

Illya jolts to awareness, taking a few steps forward, pulse picking up. From the corner of his eye, he sees a simultaneous mirroring of his motion from N- Antonino. “Has something- has something happened to the Contessa?” he asks.

“I was instructed to bring you both at once,” Waller replies, giving them something more like a sneer than a smirk. “Not to submit to your questioning.”

***

They’re led to the music room, finding a tableaux more suited to an avant-garde fashion editorial than a social gathering, especially one with as much tension as this. Against the dark, heavy wood of the antique furnishings, the modern attire looks ridiculous.

G- Regina stands at the window, still in her riding clothes sans jacket, her shoulder turned towards the rest of the group but her whole body radiating tension like a guitar string wound past snapping, the riding crop clenched in one white-knuckled fist. The flat leather tongue taps against the side of her boot, restlessness disguised as impatience.

As for the rest of the assembled, Kitty is holding court, one elbow atop the piano, still in her swimsuit, overlaid with a gauzy, navy blue caftan tied with a gaudy gold sash that matches the glints of gold sequins scattered like it. Illya supposes she thinks she looks like the night sky, but all he sees is cheap polyester and an inflated sense of self-importance. Kitty leans in to whisper something to Joli, who titters insipidly from her perch on the piano bench, wearing a similar bathing costume, but in white and silver. The others have taken the time to dress more appropriately at least; Marco, Severino, & Otto are all seated on various chairs and couches around the room, wearing trousers and light summer shirts, looking guarded and anticipatory. Cajsa and Fellippo are still in their riding attire, too, seated close together on the loveseat, the former looking uncertain and the latter faintly leery.

For a man trained as Illya, this appraisal of the room - players, positions, practicality of attire - takes an instant; in the same time, Napoleon has likely also made his own calculations based on mood and body language and what he knows of each person’s temperament. Between them both, they are as prepared as they can be within a span of heartbeats; it would be better if they could read Gaby, but she is fully in character and under equal scrutiny as her partners, unable to convey the slightest warning without risking the whole mission unravelling.

“There they are,” Kitty says, standing, arms outstretched, every inch the welcoming hostess, but for the unseen claws they know she has bared in their direction. “Your lovely _boys_.”

Gaby’s hand stops tapping, but resumes a moment later. “Yes, good, they’re here, now what is the _meaning_ of this.”

“I’m terribly sorry to have caused _such_ a fuss,” Kitty says, conciliatory and saccharine. “But I needed the pertinent parties present before I broke the unhappy news.”

Antonino shakes off the hand Waller has on his arm and stalks over to Regina, haughty and affronted. She leans into him, and Illya thinks he can see a fleeting echo of Gaby through her cover, a small, shaky sigh of relief at not standing alone any longer in this barbed atmosphere. “You could not have waited until dinner? When we would all be together anyway?”

“This is _not_ a discussion suitable for the dinner table, I don’t think,” Kitty says. Illya spares another glance around the room.

Severino: impassive, arms relaxed, one hand holding a half-empty tumbler and the other empty; Marco: predatory, elbows on the arms of his chair, angled forward, hands clasped and empty; Joli: high-spirited and eager, empty hands laced together atop her knees; Otto: vaguely curious but more taken with cracking nuts from a silver bowl on the side table beside him than watching the display in front of him. Cajsa’s eyes keep flitting towards the exit, her hands in Fellippo’s while the latter seems to be attempting to subtly shield her with his body from the rest of the room.

Thanks to Waller's foresight, there are no weapons at hand, aside from furniture and other decor. Illya will break every stick and stone of this place, every bone of everyone who stands between his team and the exit if he has to, and to hell with the mission.

Objective determined, he settles somewhat, the trembling, overpowering fury creeping under his skin and seeping down into his gut, taking root, becoming steadfast and solid, like a great block of black glass that he could shape and sharpen and use if only he knew how to grasp it. It _is_ there, though; he can taste it on the back of his tongue like iron and copper and salt.

And yet, Illya is _calm_. “Well?” Gregorio asks. “Let us hear whatever distasteful bit of business you have for us and be done with it.”

Kitty looks disappointed, but brightens again. “As you wish,” she says. “I wanted to let you know, Contessa, how very disappointed I am that you brought a CIA agent into my home without ever letting on that you had such a splendid gift for me. I’m sure you wanted it to be a surprise, but,” she shrugs eloquently, “such things are hard to wrap, I understand.”

Gaby’s eyes widen. “I beg your pardon?” she asks. “I did no such thing.” And then she’s the Contessa again, embodying her name from her firmly-planted feet to her set jawline and flashing stare.

“Didn’t you know?” Kitty says, genuinely dubious. “Antonino is not your paramour’s real name. He is a former thief and a spy for the Americans, rumored to be dead for at least a year. Isn’t that right, Napoleon Solo?”

Whatever reactions their hostess was expecting, Regina’s laugh, cutting and ringing and contemptuous, is probably the last on the list. Regina laughs and hiccoughs and laughs some more, until she’s pink with it, crumpled slightly at the midsection, her arm over her ribs. “You-” she starts, her voice tripping with mirth, “You think I didn’t _know?_ ” She shakes her head, puts her tiny hand on Napoleon’s broad shoulder, and with almost no pressure at all, he is folding gracefully to his knees.

Illya cannot help but smile at their performance, entranced and intoxicated with relief as he scans the room and sees varying levels of surprise and bewilderment appropriate to her response.

“The CIA had him tangled in their strings, and I cut them all, one by one,” Regina announces. “Gregorio there caught him trying to find my vault, to steal enough money to run. I took him in and _kept_ him and made him my own.” She pauses to let that sink in, all manner of implications hanging in the air. How does a woman tame such a rogue to kneel and to answer to another name? How does she convince the CIA to write such a valuable asset off as dead?

 

THRUSH has the means to do this sort of thing, means both complex and _deeply_ unpleasant, all the more so for the near-irreversibility of them. _Those_ will be the methods that their hosts will think of now, when they see Napoleon kneeling beside the Contessa, taking food meekly from her hand and answering to a different name.

Thwarted, Kitty tries another, duller strike. “You know he also sleeps with your guard?”

Regina’s smile mellows, from amusement to smugness. “ _Sì, esse scopano,_ ” she says, shrugging. “When I tell them to.”

That statement, too, is… evocative. Illya is all too familiar with violence, with breaking men down via pain and with fear. It’s a different thing altogether, to imagine performing pleasure upon command for someone’s amusement. Illya would never, not for a woman like Regina, not even for a mission, not for love of Russia.

Illya watches Gaby play her part, her fingertips resting gently at the gleam of gold around Napoleon’s neck as he kneels at her side. Unbidden, he imagines _her_ asking, and his mind stumbles to a halt.

He grits his teeth, keeping his face impassive.

The atmosphere has shifted; no longer are people waiting for Kitty to descend upon her prey to savage it for sport. Now, they have seen her stumble badly. The Contessa, their potential investor - with assets both financial and borne of her terrifyingly ruthless temperament - has been affronted for the very same reasons that make her such a perfect fit for their organization.

Kitty must sense it, too. “You told them to do so last night, in our library instead of the _convenience_ of your quarters? And again today while you were gone riding? I can hardly see the entertainment value in that.”

A weak final rejoinder, but shrewdly, Gaby lets her win this one, narrowing her eyes. “ _No_ ,” she answers. Quick as a flash, her hand flies out and the tongue of the crop cracks against Napoleon’s back. “For that information, I am grateful, Signora Fierro.” She inclines her head in formal thanks: the largesse of nobility. “Rest assured, he will be reprimanded. They will _both_ be reprimanded.” But her hand taps the crop against her leg again, and Napoleon bows his head, and it is clear who will bear the brunt of the Contessa’s disappointment.

Unaccountably pleased and with an inexplicably expectant air, Kitty leans back against the piano again, picking up her champagne as if she’s about to celebrate victory. Instead, she flicks her fingers at Napoleon. “Well?” she asks. “Don’t stop on our account.”

Regina arches an eyebrow. “...are you sure?” she asks. “This isn’t something most people consider _pleasant_ to watch.”

“I do,” Kitty says, laying one graceful hand on her chest. “But you’re right, this might not suit everyone’s tastes, and a good hostess knows to not subject her guests to activities they find dull. So if anyone wants to leave, find other diversions, I shan’t keep them.”

As if this breaks the spell wrought by the two warring charismas, Cajsa shoots to her feet. “Excuse me,” she mutters, pale and shaken as she bolts for the door. Fellippo follows immediately, casting his mother a foreboding glance over his shoulder.

Otto yawns. “I came here to get _away_ from work,” he says. “Anyone want to join me for a game of cards? Joli, Severino?” His wife looks torn, but stands to accompany him.

“It’s all right, Severino,” Marco says, topping up his drink and resettling in a seat with a better view. “I’ll give you a full report if anything interesting happens.”

“Fair enough,” Severino says. He gives his wife a peck on the cheek, his smile indulgent. “Don’t be too long, dearest, I need my best bridge partner.”

“Of course, darling,” Kitty says, returning his smile with a nod.

And just like that, right there, the three UNCLE agents have the whole of this THRUSH cell’s hierarchy laid out before them, transparent as glass. Who is loyal to whom, who is likely to stand idle, who can be convinced to betray, and who will fight to the bitter end. They know who leads, who follows, who is involved because they enjoy power, and who draws blood for the sport of it.

If only they had gotten the information a different way.

***

Illya is at sea, watching Gaby roll up the sleeves of her shirt and pull off her cravat with brisk motions that, from his vantage point, do little to disguise the trembling of her fingers. “Dismiss your guards,” she says to Kitty. “I’m not giving your help a free show.”

After a moment, Kitty gestures to Waller and he leaves with his subordinates in tow. That leaves Kitty and Marco, outnumbered two to three. Illya could gladly snap both their necks in under four seconds, but he’s willing to bet that the guards simply relocated to the other side of the door, ready to return if needed. And there’s also the matter of the film and the camera upstairs, tucked away in the neck of a vase among stalks of flowers.

Illya is, for once, unwilling to act hastily without some sign from his partners. He chafes at it, but reminds himself that he trusts them, that they work better when they are all on the same page rather than as individual agents with uncoordinated aims.

Gregorio looks to Regina for instruction.

The Contessa looks back at him, jaw clenched and mouth stern, but it’s Gaby in her eyes as she swallows. Her hand reaches out, combs once through Napoleon’s hair before tangling in the strands and clenching tight at the back of his head, pulling it back so that he’s looking at her.

Illya’s breath catches at the bared line of Napoleon’s throat, remembering wrapping silk around it and tying a knot.

“I hope you understand,” she tells him, voice like velvet threaded with steel, “this is not one of our games, _Antonino_.” Illya can see Napoleon’s nostrils flare, his eyes wide and fixed on Gaby, his lungs working for air. “I will not stop even if you beg me. You will take twenty-five strikes, and they. will. each. _hurt_. Nod if you understand.” She lets go of his hair and he nods.

Whatever they have communicated to each other in that moment, beyond the surface, has caused resolve to bloom in her gaze. “Take off your shirt,” she says, and Napoleon does so without fanfare, folding it neatly and setting it aside.

Illya doesn’t look at him, looks instead at Kitty’s rapacious stare, at Marco’s fascinated air of scientific observation, like one surgeon watching another’s operating technique. “Gregorio,” the Contessa says, and Illya readies for whatever, _whatever_ Gaby asks. “We will need the piano bench.”

He brings it over; she tells Napoleon to lay atop it, chest against the well-worn leather, head down over one end, hands gripping the legs. He is tall enough that he doesn’t require a cushion under his knees for this, or the bench is short enough that it doesn’t need to be raised. Either way, when he complies, it is a stable enough pose to satisfy the Contessa after she walks a slow, measured circle around him. Illya props himself against a curio cabinet, where he can keep an eye on Kitty and Marco both, and see Napoleon’s face.

“No,” Gaby says, “I want you to hold his arms down, Gregorio.”

Startled, Illya meets her eyes, and she blinks slowly, as good as a word of affirmation. He kneels, wraps his hand around those wide wrists, and finds himself at a level with Napoleon, very nearly sharing the same air.

“It’s okay,” Napoleon breathes in the barest of whispers, through parted lips that do not move with the words. “Illya, it’s _okay_.”

This must be why Gaby had given this order. She knew that Illya wouldn’t be able to watch this without the rage splintering within his lungs, driving shards outwards until the only recourse became external violence. She knew he needed to hear the words before they began.

“Count the strikes,” she tells Antonino. “And if you lose track, we will begin again.”

***

The rest of it is a blur. Illya remembers Napoleon’s eyes widening at the first strike, as if Gaby surprised him with the strength of her blow. He remembers Napoleon’s first grunt of pain somewhere around five and the satisfaction in Kitty’s sigh that followed it.

He remembers Napoleon losing count at around nine, and them starting over.

Illya had tried not to hold Napoleon’s wrists too tightly, but he’d caught sight of his knuckles straining once or twice, felt the creak of bones in his grasp, and had to fight the instinct to let go entirely.

At around seventeen, Napoleon actually cried out, looking shocked. Illya cranes his head to look and spots a thin cut, high on Napoleon’s shoulder, where the edge of the leather came down at the wrong angle.

Gaby did a very good job of making the glitter of moisture in her eyes look like fury. Time dilated, malleable and cyclical, punctuated by sound of the crop hitting skin. The Contessa’s rhythm didn’t falter except when Antonino hesitated in the count.

And then it was over.

Illya’s awareness snaps back to normal. Napoleon is dripping sweat onto what is probably a very expensive Persian rug, and Illya takes a cold kind of satisfaction in that. He thinks it would be better soaked in gasoline, but he’ll take what he can get, right now.

“Nicely done,” Kitty informs Regina, as if she’s just watched a good round of tennis. She drains her champagne flute and steps closer to inspect the results.

Gaby moves forward to block her way, proprietarily, and Kitty makes a moue of disappointment. “Gregorio,” Regina says over her shoulder, “help him to our rooms. He’ll need to wash up.”

Glad of the excuse, Illya helps Napoleon to his feet and towards the door. Behind him, he hears Regina say, “I think we’ll take dinner in our rooms this evening, if you don’t mind.”

And then they are out, past the guards and up the stairs.

***

Down the hall and to the right and through another door is safety, what little refuge they have under this roof. Once they’re inside, Napoleon pulls away from Illya, sounding hollow as he says, “I do need a shower, I. I won’t be long, let me. I won’t. I’ll be right back. Don’t _fuss_.”

Illya hadn’t been doing anything of the sort, but if his expression is anything like Gaby’s, he can see why Napoleon would say that. She’s clutching Antonino’s shirt in her arms, eyes red-rimmed like she’s been crying but there are no tears on her face.

Illya and Gaby aren’t actually all that different in age, but he feels so much older right now. He goes over to her and, before he can even complete the gesture, she’s tucked herself under his arm, face against his chest. They shuffle over to a loveseat and collapse down onto it gracelessly, facing the bathroom door, just in case.

He doesn’t notice the riding crop still looped around her wrist until she tears it off and throws it across the room with a clatter.

He does not tell her that it will be all right.

***

When Napoleon gets out of the shower, he looks more like his usual self, robe wrapped tightly around his body, the collar pulled up to his jaw. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing his warmest pyjama bottoms and his softest slippers.

For once, Illya cannot begrudge Napoleon’s decadent inclinations.

Napoleon takes one look at them and sighs. “Get in the bed,” he says, “both of you.”

Illya and Gaby both stare, and Napoleon gestures impatiently; beneath the cuffs of his robe, his wrists are an angry red. She shoots to her feet, abruptly alert like she’s remembered something important, and busies herself with arranging the pillows and the blankets according to some enigmatic purpose. _Nesting_ , Illya thinks, watching her.

“You, too, Peril,” Napoleon says. “And don’t argue, this isn’t. Well. It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Illya responds, his tongue more sluggish than sharp. “ _I_ don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

“Get in bed,” Gaby says, already situated comfortably, one arm beckoning. “ _Please_ , Illya.” It’s like a mirage. It’s more than Illya has the energy to resist, at this point. He starts unfastening his slacks on the way out of habit and then stops, frowning.

“It’s all right,” Napoleon says, walking past him, kicking off his slippers beside the bed, and climbing in next to Gaby. He shrugs off his robe, disappearing beneath the covers before Illya can get a glimpse of the state of his back.

“Oh, yes, body heat, brilliant,” Gaby says, fingers on the buttons of her shirt.

“I--” Illya tries, fails, tries again. “I don’t.”

Muffled from within the great drift of bedding, Napoleon responds, “You’re going to get in this bed right now, Peril, so that I don’t have to get up and drag you back in with me. And once we’ve all gotten comfortable like we’re huddling up against the Siberian winter, we are going to have the talk we should have had with you _before_ we began this mission.”

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” Gaby explains, contrite. “I’m sorry, Illya. Come to bed and we’ll explain everything.”

If this baffling - and too, too appealing - setup is what it will take to get answers, then Illya has no other choice. He steps out of his trousers and shrugs off his shirt, leaving undershirt and shorts on out of a sense of stubborn petulance.

As it turns out, it is a _very_ nice bed, much nicer than in the small side room he’d been given. Which makes sense, really. Unlike _everything else in this room_. “Explain,” he says, not even the sight of Gaby’s bare shoulders distracting him, despite the reminder that her pants had dropped to the floor around the same time his did.

Napoleon’s laying on his chest, arms around the pillow that props him up high enough to meet Illya’s gaze when he turns his head. Illya doesn’t look at the marks on his back, or the way Gaby is wrapped around Napoleon, the way her hand is stroking through his dark hair. “First things first, and I want you to listen very carefully: I _am_ all right, and I’m going to _be_ all right, and nothing happened down there that I hadn’t prepared myself for before this mission even started.” Illya is about to respond to this nonsense, but Napoleon interrupts. “ _Nothing_ happened down there that Gaby and I did not discuss as a possibility beforehand.”

“It wasn’t exactly what I expected,” she admits, sounding guilty. “But he _did_ try to tell me.”

“...what.” Illya is having trouble decrypting this.

“We _knew_ ,” Gaby says. “We knew what our mission was, what our roles were going to be. So we sat down and talked about it ahead of time. We… negotiated. We figured out how far we were willing to go, and what we’d say if we found we couldn’t go any farther.”

“Believe me, if either of us had said the word, we’d have given you the go-ahead to tear this place apart, stone, stitch, and mortar,” Napoleon confirms.

“What word?” Illya asks.

Gaby bites her lip. “Chop-shop,” she whispers, like she’s admitting a secret.

For some reason, this is what breaks Illya right down, strips him to his core and rattles his breath in his lungs. He closes his eyes and doubles over, fists clenched in the duvet while his eyes sting and his heart pounds.

“Oh,” Gaby says. “ _Illya_.” And her arms are soft around him, her lips softer against his temple, his ear, his cheek. She’s kissing him, mostly naked in an enormous bed, _kissing_ him, and he chokes out a sound like the shrapnel of a laugh. “What is it? Tell us.” Napoleon’s strong - if bruised - shoulder is against Illya’s side, holding him up like a pillar.

“This is not how I imagined this would go,” Illya said. “When I thought of being in a bed with you.”

Napoleon laughs first, a low rolling rumble that Illya can feel humming through his body. Gaby snickers furtively, before she has to muffle her giggle against the back of her fist. It’s like the delirium that catches hold after a gunfight, relief and the after-effects of adrenaline and the staggering disbelief of having _survived_ , only stranger, because this is more absurd than a straightforward fight.

Illya lets it effervesce out of him like bubbles from a shaken champagne bottle, first in a rush and then in a dying trickle.

“Okay,” he says, staring up at the ceiling and then rolling his head to look at Gaby, who’s sitting astride Napoleon’s hips, arms propped on either side of his ribs so that she isn’t touching his back. Then Illya looks at Napoleon, who does, incredibly, look _all right_ despite the mess of marks beneath his skin. “Okay, now you start over, from the beginning.”

“Well,” Napoleon says, frowning thoughtfully, “I think it won’t shock you to hear that I used to move in... _disreputable_ circles, some of whom were true and terrifying sadists, the kind that would consider our friend with the chair a kindred spirit. However,” he adds, holding up a finger, “there were also some who found more sport with willing victims, and among _those_ there were a few who played by an established set of rules…”

***

Illya doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He wakes feeling warmer than he has in a very long time, someone’s hair trailing across his shoulder, a strong thigh overlaid atop his, and soft breaths on his neck. He drifts like that, half-asleep for a while, until finally, he grudgingly acknowledges consciousness.

As if waiting to pounce, memories of yesterday surge to the forefront, jumbled and surreal. He tries to sit up, heart pounding, but arms from both sides wrap around his waist, keeping from going very far.

“Illya,” Gaby says, “It’s five-thirty in the morning and if we have to talk you down again, I will slap you with _Napoleon’s_ hands.”

“And I’ll let her,” Napoleon mumbles. “Go back to sleep.”

Illya isn’t sure he can, but he resettles, resigned to the total inappropriateness of their position, Gaby’s soft breasts pressed against his ribs, the smell of her shampoo and Napoleon’s aftershave mingling pleasantly, the feeling of a stubbled cheek against his shoulder.

To occupy himself, he considers the day ahead. The Contessa proved her mettle - and suitability for THRUSH - but probably lost the trust of Cajsa and Fellippo, the only two in the castle who might otherwise have been inclined to help, if it came to that. Antonino should approach Cajsa, as the most wounded party, both literally and figuratively, if only to play on her sympathies for him specifically without revealing their mission. Illya thinks that Gregorio would be best to approach Fellipe, as someone else who’s had to bear witness to cruelties that can, perhaps, no longer be borne. And if these two possible allies can’t be approached separately, then Antonino and Gregorio could appeal to them both together, one set of lovers in an impossible situation to another.

Regina would be free to handle the others as Gaby saw fit; at this point, Illya has no doubt that she is more than capable of playing their expectations like a fiddle. His hovering might do more harm than good right now.

“I can hear you thinking,” Napoleon says.

“Always thinking, thinking, thinking,” Gaby says. “For someone who’s so thick-headed most of the time, you think an awful lot.”

Napoleon gives a cracking yawn, and Illya can smell the sweet-sourness of his breath. It doesn’t really bother him. “He thinks too much,” Napoleon agrees.

“We should see if we can do something about that,” Gaby murmurs sleepily. “Maybe when we’re all awake…” She sighs and snuggles deeper under the covers, her hand sliding over Illya’s waist and into the crook of Napoleon’s elbow.

There is a long silence.

“Well now _I’m_ awake,” Napoleon announces.

“Oh _no_ ,” Gaby groans.

“You can’t just _say_ something like that,” Napoleon says. “It’s downright _cruel_.”

Illya stares up at the ceiling, finally understanding what a chess king feels like during checkmate, with no power over his own fate and cornered without having really _done_ anything. “This from the man she horsewhipped to tears not a day ago,” he comments.

“It wasn’t a whip, it was a riding crop,” Napoleon says. “I’m glad it wasn’t a whip, honestly; she has quite the arm on her.”

“She has quite the everything,” Illya says, smoothing her hair away from where it’s threatening to tickle his nose.

“...you should see your face right now, Peril,” Napoleon says.

“What about it?” Illya asks, frowning.

Instead of answering, Napoleon brings up a hand to smooth his fingertips over the lines in Illya’s forehead until it relaxes, then moves to trace the line of Illya’s lips. “Would you be very angry if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?” Napoleon asks.

“Under the circumstances-” Illya starts, losing the rest of that sentence in the cautious press of Napoleon’s mouth, as if the globe-trotting lothario were still uncertain of his welcome. Illya does his best to inspire confidence, pushing back, opening up, his hand finding that the arc of Napoleon’s skull fits perfectly into his palm despite all that ridiculous hair.

“And here I thought you weren't doing encores,” Gaby comments.

Napoleon breaks away, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You next,” he says, reaching for her. “I’ve kissed the Contessa plenty, I want to kiss _you_.”

A cloud flits across her expression, there and then gone. “You were always kissing _me_ ,” she says, but she’s already leaning in, eyelids slipping closed as Napoleon meets her halfway. Of course Napoleon compartmentalizes where Gaby owns responsibility, internalizes her actions; which is the better choice, Illya’s not sure, but he appreciates both points of view.

His own perspective isn’t bad either; he can glimpse the flick of Napoleon’s tongue as he tilts his head, the flash of Gaby’s teeth as she nips Napoleon’s lower lip. He’s seen them kiss before, the displays they’ve occasionally put on for their targets, but it’s different with Gaby’s calloused fingertips teasing at the strip of skin where Illya’s undershirt has ridden up, with Napoleon’s thigh shifting atop his.

“Mmm,” Gaby says when they break apart, gaze unfocused. “All right, I see what you mean.”

“I like _you_ ,” Napoleon explains helpfully, tracing the shell of her ear with a fingertip, making her shiver. “ _You’ve_ grown on me,” he adds to Illya with an air of grudging admission. His knee shifts higher between Illya’s legs, though, hips tilting to reveal proof that belies the statement.

Gaby’s hand is creeping higher on Illya’s stomach, pushing up the hem of his shirt while she wriggles up in delightful ways to get close enough to press feather-light kisses to his neck, his jaw, his cheek. When she reaches his mouth, Illya lets her lead, tilting his head to accommodate the slow stroke of her tongue, the drag of her lips, and - yes, there, the sharp edge of her teeth.

They all trade languid kisses like that for a while, hands drifting aimlessly. Napoleon hisses when, without thinking, Illya puts the flat of his hand between the other man’s shoulder-blades. Illya lifts it again immediately. “No,” Napoleon says, eyes dark, “It’s fine, I’m _fine_ , just--”

“Careful,” Gaby finishes for him, her hand landing atop Illya’s, flattening it again on Napoleon’s skin, gentle pressure that Napoleon arches into like a cat. Slow, smooth caresses along his spine earn a quiet shudder, and his forehead drops to rest against Illya’s shoulder.

Things get carried away after that. Gaby strips them down like she has them on a garage lift, deft and efficient, while Napoleon does his best to distract them both with his quick fingers and clever mouth. For his part, Illya discovers that Gaby inhales sharply when he sweeps the flat of his tongue over her nipple, exhales with a hitched whine when he adds suction. He finds that Napoleon is more generous than he might have expected, and--

No, that’s not right. Napoleon has been very careful, thus far, to facilitate their pleasure instead of his own, especially with Illya. It might be generosity; then again, it might not.

When he notices it, Illya’s fingers are busy stroking through the slippery-slick folds between Gaby’s legs as she lies between them, Napoleon behind her, whispering something in her ear that makes her roll her head back. She looks extraordinarily small under Napoleon’s hands, resting against his chest.

“Did you get lost after all?” Gaby asks suddenly, staring at Illya. He gives her a fierce, sharp smile, and tucks his suspicions away for the moment, showing her that he knows his way around _very_ well, thank you.

She works her hips in helpless motions against the rhythm he sets, and her voice lifts satisfyingly with each curl of his fingers. Napoleon bends to kiss the line of her neck, toying with one of her nipples while his other hand smooths down over her ribs, her hip, and along the line of her inner thigh before coming back up. His hand curves around Illya’s, bracing his wrist, one nimble finger pushing in beside Illya’s, and Gaby bites her lip and keens, trembling apart between them and around them. They soothe her through it, Napoleon with murmurs of praise, how beautiful she looks, how good she feels, while Illya uses his free hand to pet every bit of her skin that he can.

Gaby rolls forward, kissing Illya with happy humming noises, and he almost forgets his earlier intentions. “Ah,” he says, feeling her reaching for the waistband of his own shorts, “wait.” She stops, her hand half-hidden beneath the waistband. “Napoleon,” he says, “come here.”

“Maybe later,” Napoleon answers, grinning. “I have other plans.” Plans that include, apparently, working Illya’s shorts down his legs so that Gaby has free rein to explore.

Illya arches into her sure grip, eyes shutting against his will. He hears her smile, a small huff of air like she’s too distracted to laugh. He needs; he _needs--_ a groan escapes his lungs when she stops, her touch dropping away to the barest pressure at the base of his cock.

He’s not expecting the warm, wet heat of Napoleon’s mouth, and he curls up, stomach flexing and shoulders lifting off the bed, eyes going wide as he gasps. Gaby does laugh, then. “You two are going to kill me,” he says.

Napoleon pulls away with an obscene noise, expression far too pleased. “Only for a little while,” he tells Illya, and ducks down again to work in earnest.

Later, Illya might be embarrassed by the sounds they wring from him, but he’s too overwhelmed to care. Gaby runs her fingers through his hair, swallows the worst of his cursing with slow, sweet kisses, scrapes her nails up from his navel to the top of his sternum. Napoleon’s hands are lax on Illya’s thighs, tickling the hair but not bracing against them, so when Illya’s hips surge up involuntarily once, near the end, there’s nothing to stop him. Napoleon rumbles encouragingly, low in his chest, and oh, _oh_.

Illya doesn’t last long, after that. He digs his heels into the mattress but they drag him on over the edge anyway, a long euphoric drop like flying, or like swinging over a precipice on a line he trusts them both to hold steady.

“Oh,” Gaby says, sounding delighted. “I _liked_ that.”

“Well, I do aim to please,” Napoleon says, voice rough and worn.

“Mission accomplished, then,” Gaby says, stroking Illya’s temple with the sides of her knuckles. “But come up here, we still have some unfinished business.”

“You needn’t to go to any trouble on my account,” Napoleon says, and Illya slots his eyes open at that, seeing Napoleon half-seated at the end of the bed, clearly about to handle matters himself.

“Don’t be silly,” Gaby says, kneeling up and wrapping her arms around Napoleon’s shoulders, mouth against his ear. “Now be a good boy and get a rubber from the kit, will you?” She adds a swat to his flank for good measure.

Napoleon gives Illya a guarded look, and Illya sits up, scooting to the side to make room. “Come on, Cowboy, don’t keep her waiting.”

They get situated, Napoleon on his back, Gaby above him, Illya leaning against the headboard, enjoying the view and the pleasant haze still suffusing his limbs. Just as she’s about to sink down onto Napoleon’s cock, Gaby frowns, glancing at the hand Napoleon has on her leg, his other arm folded loosely beside Illya’s hip.

“Illya,” she says carefully, “I want you to hold Napoleon down for me.” Shocked, Illya just stares at her. She stares right back. “I want you to hold him down, and I want you to watch him when you do.”

“I certainly don’t mind,” Napoleon says, “it’s the _waiting_ I’m not so keen on.” He lifts his arms up over his head, stretching them out in a picturesque flex of muscles, pushing pillows out of the way, then drawing them halfway back to lie lax on the mattress.

With another dubious glance at Gaby, who just jerks her chin back at Napoleon, Illya leans over and carefully, _carefully_ wraps his hands around Napoleon’s wrists. He doesn’t know what she expects him to see, but Napoleon is arresting like this, the usual artifice he wears so naturally running ragged around the edges. He makes a soft noise, brows lifting, and Illya can guess at every motion Gaby makes from the reactions flickering across Napoleon’s face.

Gaby leans forward, demanding a kiss, and Illya is only too happy to comply. “Ah,” Napoleon says; there’s something in his expression like astonishment, like desperation, like wary awe. Gaby kisses him next then settles back upright, moving in earnest now.

“ _Beo-_ ” she says, then frowns, starting over, “ _watch_ _him_ ,” she tells Illya again, “see? He loves this. Remember, in case--” She breaks off, overwhelmed, voice hitching, counterpoint to the raw sounds she’s coaxing from Napoleon.

Illya does as he’s told, watches Napoleon’s composure ground into shards, keeps Napoleon’s arms in place even as they jerk reflexively towards the end, even when he hears Gaby following Napoleon into bliss. He kisses Napoleon through the last of it, sideways and messy and uncoordinated.

Gaby ends up in the middle again, head pillowed on Illya’s arm, her spine against his side as she runs her fingertips across Napoleon’s cheek and down his nose and across his chest.

“...in case?” Illya inquires after a while, mind drowsy.

“I think yesterday will be proof enough,” she says with a sigh. “But I wanted. I wanted you to know what it was like when you knew it was all right, in case something happens again in front of the others.” Napoleon’s wrists are red again, perhaps more so from their repeated abuse, and Illya’s forehead knits.

“I told you, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs. “It’s fine.”

 

Gaby huffs. “Just say it plainly - you _do_ like it.”

Napoleon looks down at where his hand rests against Illya’s, fingers tangled with Gaby’s. “...under certain circumstances,” he says, and it’s not a denial. “Sometimes.” He slants a mischievous smile at them both. “And you have to admit, these are some _very_ unique circumstances.”

Gaby raps the back of her hand against his sternum and he laughs outright, but Illya doesn’t see the humor in it. Unusual circumstances rarely last, in his experience. This mission will be over soon enough, and then- He stops himself there, making it a complete thought: and _then_.

Now, however, they do have their current circumstances to deal with, the mission and all its complexities just outside their door, waiting to resolve one way or the other. For all Illya knows, he might not survive it - a fact, he admits with cold and sober clarity, that’s now wholly dependent on the trouble the other two find themselves in.

“He’s thinking again,” Gaby says.

Napoleon sighs. “Well, it was fun while it lasted.”

Which says it all, really.

 

 

 

\-- TBC --


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast is quiet, those present engaging in sporadic, scattered side conversations that taper off strangely instead of the usual shared lively discussion about plans for the day ahead. Regina remains poised and aloof, Antonino subdued and moving stiffly; Illya can see the edge of the tape from the bandage on his shoulder peeking out from under his shirt collar. The cut on Napoleon’s back, while minor, had still been aggravated by their earlier indulgences, and it would be a bit much to let him bleed through bespoke.

“Will you be leaving early?” Cajsa asks Regina, reserved but curious. She may not be entirely put off her acquaintance, after all. Illya wonders what Fellippo said to her last night.

“I haven’t decided,” Regina replies, and Cajsa nods. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Fellippo and I will be going down to the village before lunch, if you want to join us. Get...” she pauses, searching for the right word. “...a change of scenery.” There’s a wealth of meaning in her tone, and Regina spares her a small smile and a nod.

Illya glares at Marco, who’s unsubtly eavesdropping. The man looks unrepentant, but turns away anyway to speak to Otto. Kitty and Severino arrive late, looking far too pleased with themselves.

“Contessa,” Kitty says as she’s seated, “Severino and I were hoping we could discuss some business with you this morning, since we missed you last night.”

“Mm,” Regina hums thoughtfully as she takes a sip of her water, “is it pressing, or will this afternoon work? I think I’d like to go shopping in the charming little town in the valley this morning, avoid the afternoon heat.”

Kitty’s eyes flicker, but she smiles graciously enough. “Of course,” she says. “But do be back by lunch, I think Ciara aims to outdo herself on the pastries today.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Regina responds.

That gives them about four hours. There is no question that the business will be THRUSH-related, but what form it will take is still a mystery. Their last chance to gain intelligence before that will be with Felippo in the village, a tricky prospect with Cajsa there and next to no privacy, but not at all impossible.

If needed, Illya can drag him off to a shed and provide forceful incentive to cooperate. It probably won’t come to that, though. Unfortunately.

***

Regina leaves Antonino and Gregorio behind, airily commenting that she trusts Waller and his men well enough to watch over them on the quick jaunt - her subtext and her demeanor signalling that this is another punishment for her men. If some assume she doesn’t trust Antonino and Gregorio not to run away, all the better. Perceived weakness is underestimation; it’s been years since anyone made the mistake of underestimating Illya, but he remembers well how to use it to his advantage.

Illya isn’t acting when he shoots Gaby a mutinous glare when the others can’t see. She adjusts her jewelry, for all appearances ignoring him, but it draws attention to her chunky magenta plastic bangles, gold rims on the interior curves and hollow compartments with a few handy gadgets tucked away within the acrylic, including a one-dose canister of knockout gas. Between that and the switchblade she likely has in her ankle boot, she’s prepared to defend herself.

It may be better than nothing, but it’s not ideal. Illya can live with it for a few hours.

“I keep feeling like we missed something in the library,” Napoleon says, after they’ve seen their mistress off and returned to their rooms. “We were interrupted, after all.”

“We haven’t checked the kitchen or laundry or guardroom,” Illya points out, ignoring the reminder.

“I highly doubt that Severino and Kitty would want to risk discovery in high-traffic areas. If there’s any entrance to a THRUSH facility in the castle, it will be private and easily accessible to them in particular.”

The thief has a point. “Fine, we check library again,” Illya concedes. “But if we find nothing, we go to laundry, is in cellar.”

“Deal,” Napoleon says, and they’re off.

***

Illya stops in the passageway when he hears voices from the library, and Napoleon jostles in close beside him to listen, as well.

“-a way to ensure her loyalty,” Severino is saying, “Not just her interest. The woman’s so capricious, there’s no telling if she’ll stick around once her curiosity’s been sated.” His voice is getting fainter, with a strange hollow echo.

“We could hold her men,” Marco suggests. “She seems very… proprietary of them.”

“I’m not sure that would be enough,” Severino replies, and whatever he says next is cut off by a creak and a low thump that Illya can feel through the bones of his feet.

“If I were a betting man,” Napoleon murmurs in Illya’s ear, “you’d owe me a forfeit right about now.”

Furiously, Illya tamps down his reactions - internal _and_ external - to this layered provocation. “We are always gambling,” he says, “with stakes we can’t afford to lose.”

“That was almost poetic, Peril,” Napoleon says, sounding _fond_ , one hand a solid presence at the small of Illya’s back.

Illya pulls away, cracking open the small door and peering through. The library is deserted, so he slips out of hiding and starts a slow perimeter sweep for some indication of the other hidden door. Napoleon follows, but stops in the middle of the room, pivoting in place, getting a sense of the space and the shapes of the walls. Illya’s seen him find safes hidden in the strangest places this way, once behind a refrigerator.

“I wonder what they will try to use against Regina,” Napoleon muses aloud. “We’ve given them precious little leverage beyond the obvious.”

“If they threaten her life, that will be the end of it,” Illya says absently, feeling for seams between the bookshelves.

“That goes without saying. But they need her on their side, not plotting revenge. The Contessa’s the type to take death threats personally, don’t you think?”

Illya can hear his smile, and turns to find him bouncing on the balls of his feet. There’s a corresponding creak of wood, muffled beneath the small rug set between a set of leather armchairs, where the rest of the room is floored with stone.

They wait a few more minutes, just in case, then lift the carpet and the trapdoor to descend a small spiral staircase. It’s very warm, a sluggish air current pushing up from below; they might be tapping into geothermal energy. The guard on duty in the room at the base of the stair is alone and drops like a lead weight when Napoleon distracts his aim and Illya drives a solid kick into his midsection, slamming him against the wall with several satisfying, audible cracks.

“Feel better?” Napoleon asks Illya and Illya shrugs noncommittally.

“For a little while, _da_.”

From there, gaining access to the THRUSH facility is a laughably simple affair. They duck into a janitor’s closet and snag a pair of slate-gray jackets of well-worn canvas with the word ‘maintenance’ stenciled on the back, plus matching caps. They can’t do much about their shoes, but if someone suspects them enough to look that closely, it’s already too late. They’ll have to act as if they belong, and move quickly.

To their surprise, they don’t find too many people. The guards on the grounds and in the castle - and, undoubtedly, at any other entrances to the caverns - are expected to provide adequate security, so there are minimal patrols within the labyrinth of tunnels they find. The facility is clearly set up for a larger operation than it currently houses - additional personnel and production waiting on funding, perhaps. 

Three of the eight laboratories are busy, manned by a handful of scientists too preoccupied with their equipment to look up through the window as Napoleon and Illya pass by. Not too far away, there’s an animal holding room, rows of cages standing mostly empty save along one wall, where mice and rats await their unfortunate fate. There’s also a pig in one corner, grunting to itself as it noses through its bedding of hay.

Across the hall is a joint morgue and operating theater, also empty. Around the corner they find a set of stark jail cells, one of them used recently if the state of the linens is any indication. Napoleon wrinkles his nose. “Human trials?” he guesses, and Illya nods sharply in agreement.

They move on. A large computer fills one room, wires and conduits snaking across the floor to holes drilled in the walls, feeding into panels throughout the facility, no doubt. A cook putters about in a kitchen off the empty cafeteria, preparing lunch. Next, a suite of offices with a pair of secretaries in the reception area diligently transcribing audio-taped recordings of the scientists’ reports. Neither one of the women bats an eye at the information being imparted: effects of various formulas, time to _expiration of the subject_ , hypotheses about the next batch of tests.

Illya and Napoleon exchange glances; they could try to slip in past the secretaries, pick the locks on the closed offices behind them, and look for any useful documents to photograph with the lighter-cam in Illya’s pocket, but that might take time they don’t have. They can’t risk it.

Down a metal stairwell and through a metal door is a garage, several large tanker trucks at the ready and beyond them, a tunnel with real sunlight glinting at the end. “I think we’ve seen enough,” Napoleon says.

“We’d better get back,” Illya agrees, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost time for lunch.”

“Of course, we mustn’t miss Ciara’s rum cakes,” Napoleon says, “I- ah. Never mind.”

There are three guards behind them, all armed. Illya doesn’t have time to react before a dart whistles past him and hits Napoleon in the neck, and another strikes Illya in his arm, biting easily through the purloined work jacket and into his skin. 

The dart releases something into the muscle that makes his arm go numb, and then things go dark and hazy and

***

Illya wakes with a dry mouth and ringing ears. “Good morning, sunshine,” Napoleon tells him, sounding far too chipper. Groggily, Illya looks around to find something he can throw at him. 

They’re in the brig they’d spotted earlier, in separate cells. Despite his tone, Napoleon looks pale and faintly annoyed. His elbows are propped on one of the horizontal braces, hands dangling casually through the bars, but Illya knows different. He stands and leans beside him, hip resting against Napoleon’s forearm.

“So?” Illya says.

“If you can find me a pick, I can get us out,” Napoleon murmurs. “They stripped me of anything I could use. You?”

Illya does a quick inventory; no belt, no shoes, no jacket, pockets turned out and the small blade stitched into the left cuff of his slacks has been cut out. They left his watch, but it’s clearly been inspected and dismissed as innocuous, given the toolmarks around the backplate. The prong of the buckle is too short to use on a lock. “Same.”

“Think they’ve told her that they have us here?” Napoleon doesn’t say her name, just in case. They are undoubtedly being watched through the clumsily-hidden camera in the light fixture. THRUSH might still believe that they were attempting to slip away from their mistress and go on the run, but it’s an increasingly slim possibility.

“Let us hope not,” Illya says. What he’s trying to tell Napoleon: _I hope she gets the chance to run before they bring her down here._ What anyone else listening should hear: _If they_ have _told her, then we’ll really be in trouble._ For the camera, he places his hand over Napoleon’s for a moment, fleeting pressure that is there and then gone. “It will be all right, Nino,” Gregorio says. “I won’t leave you.”

Napoleon blinks at him, brow furrowed; Antonino nods, relieved.

They wait.

***

Marco comes to get them, five heavily-armed guards flanking him. Waller is not among them. Napoleon and Illya could probably escape, but at least one of them would get shot in the process, and they don’t know where Gaby is.

They find out in short order. After Marco returns their shoes (but nothing else), they’re led to one of the administrative offices and then through another door that opens up onto a catwalk. It hangs high above a great cavernous space, large tanks in rows filling the main space, and stacks of metal barrels on pallets along one wall. “That… doesn’t look promising,” Napoleon says, voice halfway between his own and Antonino’s.

Illya spots what he does a moment later: Regina, looking right back at them, looking outraged at whatever Severino is saying to her. She replies angrily, but it’s too far away to tell what she’s saying. After a bit more back-and-forth, Kitty adding a comment every now and then from Severino’s elbow, Regina folds her arms, head high. Severino gives her a short little bow, gesturing for Marco to bring them down the staircase.

“I told Regina here that you were found trespassing, and she suggested I let my scientists have you for testing,” Severino says when they draw near. “I had a much better idea. You see, I don’t trust a single one of you, but having the Contessa as an ally is a much more attractive prospect than having to cover up her disappearance.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you. I’ve known about your coterie for a while now, and frankly, I’m disappointed that it took this long for one of you to approach me.” She turns an even more venomous look on Antonino. “You have something that belongs to me,” she says, reaching out and taking hold of the chain collar at the base of Antonino’s neck. She twists, and Napoleon’s eyes go wide; he buckles to the floor beneath her grasp before one of the gold links gives way. “The nerve of you, trying to run off after I saved your miserable life.”

“You saved me from yourself,” Antonino - no, now Napoleon, angry for their audience but his simpering affectations discarded. “I was only ever in danger because you threatened to kill me. And for what? Stealing from a woman who murdered her family for money? I’d call it just desserts, but it’s hardly a drop in the bucket.”

She raises the back of her hand and he flinches, as if the torments she’d inflicted upon him for months were still fresh in his mind. Gregorio gives a token struggle and gets the muzzle of a gun to his temple for his efforts.

“Gregorio, please,” Napoleon says. “ _Don’t_.” There’s a wealth of feeling in his tone, in his face, and Illya can’t tell if he’s acting anymore.

“Ah, see,” Kitty says, “he _is_ attached to your guard. I told you my maid had it right.” So it had been a servant who’d seen them in the library, that first night. No wonder Kitty had never seemed quite clear on the details.

“You should still use the collar, though,” Regina says.

“I won’t wear your collar again,” Napoleon spits. “Not ever.”

“Not _her_ collar,” Severino says fatuously. “ _Mine_. It will be less fashionable, but more effective. Otto should be putting the finishing touches on it now.”

Napoleon looks to Regina for an explanation. She inspects her manicure on the hand that had yanked the chain from his neck. “You’ll run one last little favor for me. You wanted to know where my vault is, didn’t you? Well, I’ll tell you - and you’ll retrieve… what was it?”

“Five hundred,” Severino says.

“Retrieve the black bag from the third drawer in row five. It’ll be about the size of your fist,” she says. “Will diamonds do?” she asks Severino.

“Perfectly,” he replies.

Napoleon looks shocked. “And why would I do this?”

“Because if you don’t, both you and your lover will die,” Kitty explains. “Otto is fashioning a small explosive device - not enough to cause much harm to anything wider than, say, your neck, but any more would be excessive. Waller will accompany you on your trip, and send regular reports back to the rest of us, who will stay behind. A well-trained pistol will be keeping your dear Gregorio company in case Waller misses a report or we are at all disappointed in what we hear from him.”

If the Contessa had a vault - which Gaby does not - this also means that Waller will know its location, rendering her life meaningless. If they go through with this, they may all end up dead. But if they play along, there is an opportunity for Napoleon to turn the tables on his end.

“Waller won’t follow him all the way to the vault, though,” Regina interjects, rightfully suspicious.

“Of course not,” Severino assures her with oily aplomb. “He will stop at the very door to the building as you instruct.”

“Good. Now shoo, I need to teach this dog how to fetch one last time.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “...and leave Gregorio. If he’s to be leverage, they’ll both need a reminder of what that means when I’m the one giving the push.” She gives them both a feral smile that Illya might find alarming if he thought she meant it.

“You’ll have five minutes,” Severino says magnanimously, and motions his men to take up positions at a discreet distance, their guns ready, while he wanders off with his wife and lieutenant in tow.

Napoleon glares up at Gaby, not getting to his feet. “I told you about those diamonds _in confidence,_ ” he says, voice accusatory. Illya wonders when; they’ve all been on a dozen or so missions together, many minor and quick, no more than a weekend’s work, but there have been enough of longer durations for them to have the opportunity to talk.

Not for the first time, Illya is aware of how often Napoleon has been alone with Gaby. Had last night been their first time in bed, or--?

“I’m sorry!” Gaby whispers, genuinely contrite even though her body language is all haughty aristocrat. “It was the only thing I could think of that was within reasonable - and believable! - driving distance.”

“Explain,” Illya says.

“He has a cache of stolen goods in a secure location about an hour’s drive from here,” Gaby informs him.

Napoleon looks pained. “I have a _retirement fund_ ,” he corrects.

“Of ill-gotten gains,” Illya finishes for him. “Naturally.”

“You act as if this is news to you, Peril. I’m the same man I ever was, nothing’s changed except- ah.” Illya looks away, grinding his teeth like millstones. “Well this might be a bit of a shock, but my morality doesn’t actually change according to the people I--”

“Stop,” Gaby says to them both. “Just stop. Napoleon, all I need are those diamonds, you can keep the rest.”

“And how will I explain those in my report to Waverly? Am I to expect you both to lie for me?” Napoleon shakes his head, then freezes. “Hell, you’re going to have to hit me now, Gaby, they saw that.”

“Gladly,” she says, slapping him once, _hard_. Illya can see the impact rock Napoleon back on his knees.

“That was unnecessarily vehement,” Napoleon says, rubbing his cheek with his palm.

Their captors are coming back. The choice now is to fight and run, taking their chances, or for Napoleon to play along and buy them time with his nest egg. Illya knows what choice he’d make in the same position, but Napoleon is an enigma to him right now.

Severino, Kitty, and Marco return, but they aren’t alone; Otto and Waller have joined them. Otto is carrying a thin strip of metal with a blocky addition welded to one side: the collar. Illya cannot guess whether the reaction is real or feigned, but Napoleon recoils as if they’re carrying a live cobra.

“So?” Severino asks. “Are we all ready?”

Gaby looks at Napoleon, and Napoleon looks right back before he turns to Illya, regret writ large in his eyes. He takes a deep breath and says:

“Chop-shop.”

Illya can’t condone Napoleon’s decision, might not ever be able to comprehend it, but oddly, when he hears this, his immediate reaction is a great sense of relief. Illya’s already in motion when it sinks in for Gaby, who gasps and ducks as Illya takes the nearest guard and throws him into the approaching cluster of THRUSH agents. He misses Severino and Kitty, and knocks Otto down flat; Marco sidesteps neatly but collides with Waller, who loses his clear shot at Illya.

The collar goes skidding and gunshots ring out, echoing and ricocheting around the vats. THRUSH thugs need to spend more time at the range than strolling around looking tough. More time on the mats, too; Napoleon’s gained his feet _and_ a gun, an unconscious guard on the ground next to him.

He spots Gaby and Kitty scrambling for the first guard’s gun. Kitty gets Gaby in a headlock, Gaby reaches back, her face screwed up, and Kitty passes out from the gas released by Gaby’s bracelet.

There’s a tangle of pipes leading into a nearby vat, and Illya ducks behind it to wrench one loose. A guard comes around the other side and Illya breaks his shoulder with a quick, controlled swing of the pipe. The man fumbles the gun with his off hand, and Illya strikes him in the throat. Down he goes, and Illya gets his gun.

The next few minutes are a whirl, Illya fighting the unlucky guards who get within reach and picking off the ones on the catwalk trying to get a bead on them from above. He keeps getting glimpses of Gaby or Napoleon, each engaged in their own skirmishes, but they’re always gone by the time he reaches the last place he’d seen them.

It is immensely satisfying when he spots Waller from behind, less so when he finds that he’s out of bullets. Wait, no: _more_ so, because then Illya gets to use his hands.

Waller, as it turns out, is not out of bullets. His gun goes off as Illya’s tackle bears him down to the ground, but momentum means his skull bounces off the concrete and his enraged snarl goes slack and Illya takes that second to snap his neck before he recovers.

Distantly, as Illya stands, he hears Gaby scream his name. He turns, pain lancing through his side as he does so, to see her running towards him, panic in her eyes and a pistol in her hand.

Behind her, Severino steps out from behind a tank, his own gun lifting to aim at her back.

Severino frowns, then looks shocked, then falls. Napoleon stands behind him, Gaby’s switchblade in his hand, dripping red.

Something hard and metallic presses against the back of Illya’s neck at the base of his skull, and Gaby skids to a halt, hands raised.

“Nice trick with the gas,” Kitty says, words slurred, “but I think I can still hit him from this range, don’t you?”

The pain in Illya’s side is spreading up through his ribs, creeping like fire through a forest, then like frost on a glass as each section of his body goes numb. His limbs are heavy and his thoughts are slow. He can disarm Kitty, he can, it’s just a simple matter of--

His shirt is sticking to his ribs, and he looks down, curious.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, remembering. _Waller._

The ground comes up to meet him in slow motion, Napoleon’s shout and the crack of a gunshot almost comically delayed and then

***

Someone slaps him, hard. “...unnecessarily vehement,” he mumbles, trying to sit up and regretting it.

It’s Napoleon. “Come on, Peril, up you go, we have to get out of here.”

“Gaby?” Illya says, willing his body to cooperate despite the pain.

Napoleon turns them around, letting Illya see her fiddling with something on one of the barrels. Something small and metal and-- “She’s fine, but we have to get moving to the trucks and get out of here.”

“Got it,” Gaby crows, brandishing a small remote with a single switch and a long antenna. She ducks under Illya’s other arm and he lets her, putting most of his weight on Napoleon anyway.

“Good god, man, what _have_ we been feeding you?” Napoleon says.

“You keep making me try terrible American food,” Illya says, playing along. “And Parisian food, and Italian food, and Turkish, and whateverelse, because you think I was deprived in Russia.”

“You _were_ deprived in Russia,” Napoleon says, attempting a light tone and not quite making it. “You’d never had _Jamón ibérico_ , it was a crime.”

“How you _got_ it for us was a crime,” Gaby points out.

“Ah, the owner was arrested the next day anyway, it would have gone to waste if _la Policía_ had gotten their hands on it.”

They reach the truck and Illya leans against the door with Napoleon’s gun, watching their backs while Napoleon unlocks the doors and Gaby pops the hood to start the engine. They haul him into the middle of the seat, Gaby on his left and Napoleon on his right. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Napoleon says, and Gaby retrieves the remote from where she’d set it on the dashboard. She flips the switch, and there’s a small, muffled explosion. “...is that all?”

“The collar was all I had to work with,” Gaby says defensively. “So sorry they didn’t want to blow more than your head off.” They hear shouts and shooting behind them; Napoleon reclaims his gun and returns fire out the window. Gaby sets her jaw and floors the gas pedal.

“To think I almost killed you,” Illya says, reminded of their first encounter.

She spares him a baffled glance; he’s slumped on the seat, so they’re almost at a level. “Regretting it?” she asks sharply.

“Not even for a moment,” he says, voice barely a whisper. He’s having a hard time getting air into his lungs. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

“Hang on,” Gaby says, and Napoleon’s arm locks around his shoulder, pinning him to the seat.

The truck runs into something that almost stops it, but fails. There’s a terrifying screech of metal as they shove past it, and even once they’re through, a rattle follows them like something still clings to or has been torn partially off the truck.

“Hey, Illya,” Napoleon says, “I think we found the gate that key went to.”

Illya wants to laugh, tries to, but he winds up coughing wetly.

 _“Mein Gott,”_ Gaby says. “Is that blood?”

Illya passes out again. It’s much nicer this time around.

***

The sound of helicopters wakes Illya up. They’ve pulled over on a hillside clearing just off the road, far enough from the castle for safety but visible from the air.

“When did you call Waverly?” Napoleon is asking. Illya’s slumped against his shoulder while Gaby’s hands are prodding at his wound. It feels like she’s stabbing her fingers right into his ribs, and he grunts.

“I didn’t,” Gaby says, her voice thin with worry. “Cajsa did, while I distracted Waller.”

Napoleon whistles. “You gave her his number? Oh, he’ll have kittens.”

“He can keep his kittens,” Gaby says, and does something else that makes Illya wheeze, as close to a cry as he can manage at the moment. “I’m sorry, Illya. That’s as much as I can do.”

Illya opens his eyes by just a fraction and tries to smile at her. She winces; it must not be a successful attempt at reassurance. He tastes iron and bile in his teeth, in the back of his throat. “Is that castle,” he croaks, gesturing to a white blur on the neighboring hill.

“Yes, that’s the castle,” Gaby says. As they watch, part of it abruptly collapses into the ground, orange light flickering in the yawning pit where a whole wing had just stood.

“...Gaby,” Napoleon says after they just stare for a minute. “What exactly were in those barrels you blew up?”

“Acetic acid, I think,” Gaby says.

“Is that all?”

“...I’m not sure,” she admits.

“Goodbye, ugly purple clothes,” Illya says, smiling. Napoleon’s shoulder shakes with near-silent laughter; Gaby smothers a giggle.

The helicopter finds them then, its steady _whop whop whop_ cutting through the air with a staccato roar.

***

After the surgery, Illya is put on a great deal of very impressive drugs, despite his protests. Everything is hazy and warm, too-bright lights in his recovery room washing out detail so that it’s just easier to keep his eyes closed most of the time. He hears more than sees when Gaby visits, her small snuffles and the careful, angry thump of her fist hitting the mattress.

He doesn’t hear when Napoleon visits; he wakes in the middle of the night when it’s blessedly dark at the touch of a hand on his and sees Napoleon’s eyes glittering at him from the shadows, watchful and wary.

Waverly is in and out with brisk good cheer at what Illya assumes are regular intervals. Eventually he says, “The doctors tell me they’ll be stepping down your painkillers soon, sorry to say, but that means we should be able to get you out of this bed in a day or so, how’s that sound?” 

The doctors have already begun ‘stepping down,’ and Illya growls something to that effect. 

Waverly just claps him on the shoulder gently. “Glad to hear it, can’t have my terrible trio reduced to a duo, and-” he drops his voice to a confidential whisper, “-speaking of which, I’d appreciate if you had a word with our Miss Teller.” Another pat to the shoulder, and Waverly’s off, leaving Illya to stew over the implications of that cryptic parting remark.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t seen Gaby and Napoleon in the same room at the same time since the mission ended.

Gaby brings him a small box of cream-filled _trubochki_ to celebrate his impending release. He watches her lick powdered sugar off her fingers; he feels suddenly, irrationally selfish, and resents it bitterly. Things were so much easier when he served _Rodina-Mat_ with no thought of his own needs beyond the stubborn desire to prove his worth to his superiors.

“Don’t leave,” he says, with mouth dry from the medications and a throat tight with sentiment. Her gaze snaps up to his, doe-startled.

“I’m _not_ ,” she says, then looks away again, unable to continue the pretense. “Damn Waverly, anyway. I was thinking about asking for a temporary reassignment, just long enough… I didn’t want to say good-bye, that’s all.”

There is a small smudge of sugar at the corner of her mouth; Illya wants to lick it away. Instead, he says, “You don’t need to, if you don’t go.” It occurs to him that this might not be about _her_ leaving, after all. How many times has she _been left?_ “I’m not going anywhere.”

She lifts her jaw and pokes him gently in the side, close enough to his bullet wound that he winces. “People in our business don’t really get to promise that, do we,” she says; it’s not a question.

“And how long will we last without you, little chop-shop girl?” he asks, damning the unevenness of his voice. “We would drive each other to distraction, if we didn't kill each other first.”

She laughs, at that; it sounds a little bittersweet, but it’s a laugh.

***

"She's afraid you are going to leave us," Illya says, late that evening. Napoleon looks affronted. Illya just gives him a steady stare, and Napoleon caves with a rueful shrug, more readily than Illya would have predicted. As if he can't be blamed for planning an exit strategy. He's going to say something about leopards and spots next, surely. 

"...'us'?" Napoleon asks instead. "You mean UNCLE." 

Illya knows this game; knows that Napoleon is one of its Grandmasters, knows that he's outclassed if he plays along. He understands enough, about the push-pull of need versus want, and that Napoleon plays this game because he confuses _coveting_ a thing with truly _valuing_ it. Illya spent too long watching his mother make that mistake to emulate it, but that also means he recognizes the gambit. 

It comes to this: Napoleon needs to know he's wanted. 

And Illya… Illya knows himself well enough, by now, to know that he’s too stubborn to retreat. He has, despite himself, gotten used to warmth, and does not want to go back out into the cold. Perhaps a change of terrain will help; not that he thinks the outcome will alter, just that talking about these things in hospital, in the dark, feels like bargaining with death: grim and inevitable.

Also, it will force an end to this little stalemate between day and night.

“You think you are good thief, Cowboy,” he says, looking past Napoleon and out the window, where the lights of the city glimmer and rooftops are cast in silver by the nearly-full moon. “Can you break me out of this place?”

Napoleon gives him a slow smile. “Looking to run off, Peril?”

“No,” Illya says. “Just tired of doctors and being treated like… pottery.”

“China,” Napoleon corrects absently, his thoughts clearly preoccupied with escape plans. “The saying goes ‘treated like china’.” 

Illya frowns but lets it go. American idioms are ridiculously specific. There is no difference between pottery and china; they both break eventually, like bones and glass and promises.

Their fragility is the whole _point_ of them. Fragility is why they are valued whole.

***

Less than two hours later, Illya sits in the well-padded seat of a convertible. He doesn’t ask how Solo acquired it. He doesn’t need to know.

“Where do you want to go?” Napoleon asks.

“Take me back,” Illya replies. To his credit, Napoleon doesn’t ask for clarification.

Gaby is already waiting for them at the castle ruins, leaning back against a Jeep, arms folded. She looks impossibly crisp in a lemon yellow sundress, white trim matching her shoes and purse and driving gloves. She practically glows in contrast to the olive drab of her vehicle and the soot-streaked stones of the castle. 

Napoleon gives Illya a guarded glance. “You set this up,” he says, accusatory.

“Yes,” Illya says, taking the lead as they cross the gravel drive, “but not the way you think.” The whole place smells like death, like chemicals and ash and, strangely, rotting grapes. He wonders how many people escaped before the collapse, already knows that Joli and Otto and Marco are still at large, knows that Casja and Fellippo opted for UNCLE’s protective custody under different names, in a different city, in exchange for what information they knew. He doesn’t know about the servants, though, those that were innocent in the castle, nor those who were not: the scientists and the secretaries and those that stood guard outside the subterranean facility.

He can’t remember any of their names, but he still wonders.

“Didn’t expect me here, hm?” Gaby asks, jaw set, expression far less sunny than her wardrobe. “I put a tracker in your watch. I can outdrive either of you in my _sleep_.”

“I know,” Illya says, walking right up to her and bending low to frame her face in his hands, tilting it upwards for a kiss. She sways into it, fingers wrapping around his wrists more to brace herself than to pull away. Her expression is softer when they break apart, curious but wary.

Illya strokes her cheeks with his thumbs, then turns halfway to look at Napoleon. “You see? If any of us leave,” he says, “the others will find them.” That’s how it’s always been, from Rome to Istanbul to Guadalajara to Vienna to Algiers to Chennai and now again here.

“To bring us back?” Napoleon asks, still just out of arm’s reach. Testing his resolve or theirs, maybe both.

“Don’t be a fool,” Gaby says, the snap in her voice more hurt than scolding. “You’re _ours_.” _Not UNCLE’s_ , is what she doesn’t say, but it hangs in the air regardless.

Illya imagines - for the first time but not the last - what it would look like, for them to walk away from UNCLE, from the handlers Waverly keeps at bay with metaphorical whip and chair. Among the three of them, they might be able to manage it. They would never be able to go back to their homes again, but he’s starting to realize how negligible a loss that would be.

Napoleon steps closer. “Promise me something,” he says, and to their questioning looks, says, “No more collars.”

Gaby affects a pout, looking up at him through her lashes. “But-” she starts.

Napoleon comes close, folds one of her little hands in his like he’s palming a room key. “I will replace everything - _everything_ \- I bought you, down to the damned riding crop, _except_ the collar and the leash. Deal?”

Her cheeks go pink as she nods, and Illya knows he will find out, sooner or later. But he won’t ask now.

Gaby’s purse chirps at them, and she scrambles to open it, pulling out a pen and twisting half of the barrel off, revealing a microphone. “Sorry, sir,” she says into it. “I found them.”

“Good to hear,” Waverly’s voice responds tinnily. “They are all right, I assume?”

“...yes, sir,” Illya says, feeling self-conscious as he ducks close to the mic.

“Just fine,” Napoleon chimes in.

“Excellent,” Waverly says. “I’m actually impressed that you both managed to keep Mr. Kuryakin out of the field for so long, but as he’s up and about, I’m afraid I’ll have to take advantage. Your next assignment is already waiting for you in Majorca. You’ll recognize your contact; she’ll debrief you when you arrive.” He pauses, clears his throat. “Ah, she’s not expecting you until tomorrow, so don’t. _Well_. You needn’t rush overmuch, Kuryakin, if you’re not feeling up to snuff.”

Napoleon is beaming, and Illya would hit him if Waverly could see them.

“Yes, sir,” Illya says again.

“Thank you, sir,” Gaby choruses, and twists the little transmitter off before Napoleon can say anything. “Um. He may suspect.”

“Do you think so?” Illya says, feeling mortified.

“He practically gave us his blessing,” Napoleon says speculatively.

“Let’s not think about that,” Gaby says. “What do you say, we could go back to Rome for old time’s sake, catch a flight to Barcelona from there and then the ferry, or I can see if I can get us a seaplane, fly us myself?”

“North,” Napoleon says. “We drive north.”

“Why?” Illya asks.

“I moved my retirement fund to Bern,” Napoleon answers.

Gaby blinks at him. “When--” she says, then stops herself. “No, wait, do you mean--?”

“There is also an airport in Milan,” Illya says firmly. “We go north.” The sun is rising, and it’s only five hours to Milan. They have time. 

They can decide on the way. 

 

 

 

\-- END --

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Queen, the Serf, & the Soldier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596492) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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